She could only live in prose, in periods and cadences, in mosaics of invented lives.
Many lands and wonders had she witnessed; she had trodden the streets of famous cities; she had loved and been loved; she had suffered; but still she wanted to read.
What are you going to do with your life? When are you going to get married? She did not want to answer. She just wanted to read.
There it was, in black and white: the mystery. Would she ever find the perfect story, the ankh?
She came home, shut the door and sighed. The book had fallen off the shelf onto the floor. She picked it up, sat down and started to read.
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